THE  LIBRARY 


THE  UNIVERSITY 


OF  CALIFORNIA 


LOS  ANGELES 


Katharine  F.  Richmond 

and 
Henry  C.  Fall 


SONGS   OF  TWO 


SONGS   OF   TWO 

BY 
ARTHUR  SHERBURNE   HARDY 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
MDCCCC 


Copyright,  1900,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 


PS 


SONGS   OF  TWO 


1066118 


SONGS     OF    TWO 


LAST  night  I  dreamed  this  dream :  That  I  was  dead ; 

And  as  I  slept,  forgot  of  man  and  God, 

That  other  dreamless  sleep  of  rest, 

I  heard  a  footstep  on  the  sod, 

As  of  one  passing  overhead, — 
And  lo,  thou,  Dear,  didst  touch  me  on  the  breast, 

Saying:  "What  shall  I  write  against  thy  name 
That  men  should  see?" 

Then  quick  the  answer  came, 
"I  was  beloved  of  thee." 


[1] 


SONGS    OF    TWO 


II 

DEAR  Giver  of  Thyself!  when  at  thy  side 

I  see  the  path  beyond  divide, 

Where  we  must  walk  alone  a  little  space, 

I  say:  "Now  am  I  strong  indeed 

To  wait  with  only  Memory  awhile, 

Content,  until  I  see  thy  face, — 

Yet  turn,  as  one  in  sorest  need, 

To  ask  once  more  thy  giving  grace. 

So,  at  the  last 

Of  all  our  partings,  when  the  night 
Has  hidden  from  my  failing  sight 
The  comfort  of  thy  smile, 

My  hand  shall  seek  thine  own  to  hold  it  fast; 

Nor  wilt  thou  think  for  this  the  heart  ingrate, 

Less  glad  for  all  its  past, 
Less  strong  to  bear  the  utmost  of  its  fate. 


[2] 


SONGS    OF    TWO 


III 


As  once  through  forest  shade  I  went, 

I  heard  a  flower  call,  and  bent — 

Then  strove  to  go.  Should  Love  not  spare? 

"Nay,  Dearest,  this  is  Love's  sweet  share 

Of  selfishness.  For  which  is  best, 

To  die  alone  or  on  thy  breast? 

If  thou  hast  heard  my  call, 

Take  fearlessly,  thou  art  my  guest, — 

To  give  is  all." 
Hush!  O  Love,  thou  casuist! 


[3] 


SONGS    OF    TWO 


IV 


ASK  me  not  why, — I  only  know. 
It  were  thy  loss  if  I  could  show 
Thee  cause  as  for  a  lesser  thing. 
Remember  how  we  searched  the  spring, 
But  found  no  source,  —  so  clear  the  sky 
Within  its  earth-bound  depths  did  lie. 
Give  to  thy  joy  its  wings, 

And  to  thy  heart  its  song,  nor  try 
With  questionings 

The  throbbing  throat  that  sings. 


[4] 


SONGS     OF    TWO 


FOR  in  thy  clear  and  steadfast  eyes 
Thine  own  self-wonder  deepest  lies, 
Nor  any  words  that  lips  can  teach 
Are  sweeter  than  their  wonder-speech. 
And  when  thou  givest  them  to  me, 
Through  dawns  of  tenderness  I  see, — 

As  in  the  water-sky, — 
The  sun  of  certainty  appear. 

So,  ask  me  why, 
For  then  thou  knowest,  Dear. 


SONGS    OF    TWO 


VI 

To  give  is  more  than  to  receive,  men  say. 
But  thou  hast  made  them  one!  What  if,  some 

day, 

Men  bade  me  render  back  the  gifts  I  cannot  pay, — 
Since  all  were  undeserved!  should  I  obey? 
Lo,  all  these  years  of  giving,  when  we  try 
To  own  our  thanks,  we  hear  the  giver  cry  : 
"Nay,  it  was  thou  who  gavest,  Dear,  not  I." 
If  Wisdom  smile,  let  Wisdom  go  ! 

All  things  above 

This  is  the  truest:  that  we  know  because  we  love, 
Not  love  because  we  know. 


[6] 


SONGS    OF    TWO 


VII 

LET  it  not  grieve  thee,  Dear,  that  Love  is  sad, 
Who,   changeless,   loveth    so   the   things    that 

change, — 

The  morning  in  thine  eyes,  the  dusk  within  thy  hair. 
Were  it  not  strange 
If  he  were  glad 

Who  cannot  keep  thy  heart  from  care, 
Or  shelter  from  the  whip  of  pain 
The  bosom  where  his  head  hath  lain? 
Poor  sentinel,  that  may  not  guard 
The  door  that  love  itself  unbarred! 

Who  in  the  sweetness 
Of  his  service  knows  its  incompleteness, 

And  while  he  sings 
Of  life  eternal,  feels  the  coldness  of  Death's  wings. 


[T] 


SONGS    OF    TWO 


VIII 

STOOP  with  me,  Dearest,  to  the  grass 

One  little  moment  ere  we  pass 

From  out  these  parched  and  thirsty  lands. 

See!  all  these  tiny  blades  are  hands 

Stretched  supplicating  to  the  sky. 

And  listen,  Dearest,  patiently, — 

Dost  thou  not  hear  them  move  ? 

The  myriad  roots  that  search,  and  cry 

As  hearts  do,  Love, 
"Feed  us,  or  let  us  die!" 


[8] 


SONGS     OF    TWO 


IX 


BELOVED,  when  far  up  the  mountain  side 

We  found,  almost  at  eventide, 

Our  spring,  how  we  did  fear 
Lest  it  should  dare  the  trackless  wood 

And  disappear! 
And  lost  all  heart  when  on  the  crest  we  stood 

And  saw  it  spent  in  mist  below! 

Yet  ever  surer  was  its  flow, 

And,  ever  gathering  to  its  own 

New  springs  of  which  we  had  not  known, 

To  fairer  meadows 

Swept  exultant  from  the  woodland  shadows; 
And  when  at  last  upon  the  baffling  plain 
We  thought  it  scattered  like  a  ravelled  skein, — 

Lo,  tranquil,  free, 
Its  longed-for  home,  the  wide  unfathomable  sea ! 


[9] 


SONGS    OF    TWO 


THY  names  are  like  sweet  flowers  that  grow 
Within  a  garden  where  I  go, 
Sometimes  at  dawn,  to  see  each  one 
Lift  its  head  proudly  in  the  sun; 

Sometimes  at  night, 
When  only  by  the  fragrant  air 

I  know  them  there. 

And  none  are  grieved  or  think  I  slight 
Their  worth,  if  closest  to  my  breast 
This  one  I  take  which  holds  within  its  own 
Each  single  fragrance  of  the  rest, — 

My  friend,  my  friend! 
And  as  I  loved  it  first  alone, 
So  shall  I  love  it  to  the  end, 

For  none  were  half  so  dear  were  it  not  best. 


[10] 


SONGS    OF    TWO 


XI 

MY  every  purpose  fashioned  by  some  thought  of 

thee, 
Though  as  a  feather's  weight  that  shapes  the  arrow's 

flight  it  be; 
No  single  joy  complete  in  which  thou  hast  no 

fee, 
Though  thy  share  be  the  star  and  mine  its  shadow  in 

the  sea; 
Thy  very  pulse  my  pulse,  thy  every  prayer  my 

prayer, 
Thy  love  my  blue  o'erreaching  sky  that  bounds  me 

everywhere,  — 

Yet  free,  Beloved,  free!  for  this  encircling  air 
I  cannot  leave  behind,  doth  but  love's  boundlessness 
declare. 


SONGS     OF    TWO 


XII 

LAST  night  the  angel  of  remembrance  brought 

Me  while  I  slept — think,  Dear!  of  all  his  store 

Just  that  one  memory  I  thought 

Banished  forever  from  our  door!  — 

Thy  sob  of  pain  when  once  I  hurt  thee  sore. 

Then  in  my  dream  I  suddenly  was  ware 

Of  God  above  me  saying:  "Reach 

Thy  hand  to  Me  in  prayer, 
And  I  will  give  thee  pardon  yet." 

Thou?  Nay,  she  hath  forgiven,  teach 
Her  to  forget. 


[12] 


SONGS    OF    TWO 


XIII 

LOVE  me  not,  Dearest,  for  the  smile, 

The  tender  greeting,  or  the  wile 

By  which,  unconscious  of  its  road, 

My  soul  seeks  thine  in  its  abode; 

Nor  say  "I  love  thee  for  thine  eyes, — " 

For  when  Death  shuts  them,  where  thy  skies? 

But  love  me  for  my  love, 
Then  am  I  safe  from  all  surprise, 

And  thou  above 
The  loss  of  all  that  dies. 


[13] 


SONGS    OF    TWO 


XIV 

DEAR  hands,  forgiving  hands, 
There  is  no  speech  so  sure  as  thine. 

Lips  falter  with  so  much 

To  tell,  eyes  fill  with  thoughts  I  scarce  divine, — 
But  thy  least  touch 
Soul  understands. 
Dear  giving,  taking  hands, 
There  are  no  gifts  so  free  as  thine. 
One  last  gem  from  the  heart  of  the  mine, 
One  last  cup  from  the  veins  of  the  vine, 
From  the  rose  to  the  wind  one  last  sweet  breath, 
Then  poverty,  and  death ! 
But  thy  dear  palms 
Are  richest  empty,  asking  alms. 


[14] 


SONGS     OF    TWO 


XV 

A  LITTLE  moment  at  the  end 
Of  day,  left  over  in  the  candle-light 
On  the  shore  of  dreams,  on  the  edge  of  sleep, 
Too  small  to  throw  away, 

Too  poor  to  keep! 
But  it  holds  two  words  for  thee,  dear  Friend,  - 

Good-night,  Good-night! 
And  so  this  little  remnant  of  the  day, 

Left  over  in  the  candle-light 
On  the  shore  of  dreams,  on  the  edge  of  sleep, 
Becomes  too  great  to  throw  away, 
Too  dear  to  keep! 


[15] 


SONGS    OF    TWO 


XVI 

BELOVED,  when  I  read  some  fine  conceit, 
Wherein  are  wrought  as  in  a  glass 
The  features  love  hath  made  so  sweet, 
I  marvel  at  so  bold  an  art; 
Seeing  thou  art  too  dear  to  praise 
Upon  the  highway  where  men  pass. 

For  when  I  seek 

To  tell  the  ways 
God's  hand  of  tenderness 
Hath  touched  thine  earthly  part, 

Again  I  hear 

Thy  first  own  cry  of  happiness, 
And,  sweetest  of  God's  sounds,  the  dear 
Remonstrance  of  thy  giving  heart, — 

And  cannot  speak! 


[16] 


SONGS     OF     TWO 


XVII 

ACROSS  the  plain  of  Time 
I  saw  them  marching  all  night  long, — 

The  endless  throng 

Of  all  who  ever  dared  to  fight  with  wrong. 
All  the  blood  of  their  hearts,  the  prime 
And  crown  of  their  fleeting  years, 
All  the  toil  of  their  hands,  the  tears 
Of  their  eyes,  the  thought  of  their  brain, 
For  a  word  from  the  lips  of  Truth, 
For  a  glimpse  of  the  scroll  of  Fate, 
Ere  love  and  youth 
Were  spent  in  vain, 
And  even  truth  too  late! 
Oh,  when  the  Silence  speaks,  and  the  scroll 
Unrolls  to  the  eye  of  the  soul, 
What  will  it  be  that  shall  pay  the  cost 
Of  the  pain  gone  waste  and  the  labor  lost! 
And  then,  Dear,  waking,  I  saw  you  — 
And  knew. 


[17] 


SONGS     OF     TWO 


XVIII 

WE  thought  when  Love  at  last  should  come, 

The  rose  would  lose  its  thorn, 

And  every  lip  but  Joy's  be  dumb 

When  Love,  sweet  Love,  was  born; 

That  never  tears  should  start  to  rise, 

No  night  o'ertake  our  morn, 

Nor  any  guest  of  grief  surprise, 

When  Love,  sweet  Love,  was  born. 

And  when  he  came,  O  Heart  of  mine! 

And  stood  within  our  door, 

No  joy  our  dreaming  could  divine 

Was  missing  from  his  store. 

The  thorns  shall  wound  our  hearts  again, 

But  not  the  fear  of  yore, 

For  all  the  guests  of  grief  and  pain 

Shall  serve  him  evermore. 


[18] 


SONGS     OF    TWO 


XIX 

1 

DOST  thou  remember,  Dear,  the  day 
We  met  in  those  bare  woods  of  May  ? 
Each  bud  a  secret  unconfessed, 
Each  sound  a  promise,  in  each  nest 
Young  wings  a-tremble  for  the  air, — 
How  we  joined  hands? — not  knowing  where 

The  springs  that  touch  set  free 

Should  find  their  sea. 
Speechless — so  sure  we  were  to  share 

The  unknown  good  to  be. 


SONGS    OF    TWO 


XX 

2 

The  woods  are  bare  again.  There  are 
No  secrets  now,  the  bud  's  a  scar; 
No  promises,  —  this  is  the  end! 
Ah,  Dearest,  I  have  seen  thee  bend 
Above  thy  flowers  as  one  who  knew 
The  dying  wood  should  bloom  anew. 

Come,  let  us  sleep.  Perchance 

God's  countenance, 
Like  thine  above  thy  flowers,  smiles  through 

The  night  upon  us  two. 


[20] 


VERSES 


VERSES 


MY     FRIEND 

I  HAVE  a  friend  who  came,  —  I  know  not  how, 
Nor  he.  Among  the  crowd,  apart, 
I  feel  the  pressure  of  his  hand,  and  hear 
In  very  truth  the  beating  of  his  heart. 

My  soul  had  shut  the  door  of  her  abode, 
So  poor  it  seemed  for  any  guest 
To  tarry  there  a  night, — until  he  came, 
Asking,  not  entertainment,  only  rest. 

Our  hands  were  empty, — his  and  mine  alike, 
He  says, — until  they  joined.  I  see 
The  gifts  he  brought;  but  where  were  mine 
That  he  should  say  "  I  too  have  need  of  thee  ? ' 

Without  the  threshold  of  his  heart  I  wait 
Abashed,  afraid  to  enter  where 
So  radiant  a  company  do  meet, — 
Yet  enter  boldly,  knowing  I  am  there. 


[23] 


VERSES 


Whether  his  hand  shall  press  my  latch  to-night, 
To-morrow,  matters  not.  He  came 
Unsummoned,  he  will  come  again;  and  I, 
Though  dead,  shall  answer  to  my  name. 

And  yet,  dear  friend,  in  whom  I  rest  content, 
Speak  to  me  now — lest  when  we  meet 
Where  tears  and  hunger  have  no  grace, 
A  little  word  of  friendship  be  less  sweet. 


[24] 


VERSES 


ON    NE    BADINE    PAS    AVEC    LA    MORT 

1 

THE  dew  was  full  of  sun  that  morn 
(Oh  I  heard  the  doves  in  the  hayricks  coo!} 
As  he  crossed  the  meadows  beyond  the  corn, 
Watching  his  falcon  in  the  blue. 
How  could  he  hear  my  song  so  far, — 
The  song  of  the  blood  where  the  pulses  are ! 
Straight  through  the  fields  he  came  to  me, 
(Oh  I  saw  his  soul  as  I  saw  the  dew!) 
But  I  hid  my  joy  that  he  might  not  see, 
I  hid  it  deep  within  my  breast, 
As  the  starling  hides  in  the  maize  her  nest. 


[25] 


VERSES 


2 

Back  through  the  corn  he  turned  again, 
(Oh  little  he  cared  where  his  falcon  flew  !) 
And  my  heart  lay  still  in  the  hand  of  pain, 
As  in  winter's  hand  the  rivers  do. 
How  could  he  hear  its  secret  cry, — 
The  cry  of  the  dove  when  the  summers  die ! 
Thrice  in  the  maize  he  turned  to  me, 
( Oh  I  saw  his  soul  as  I  saw  the  dew!) 
But  I  hid  my  pain  that  he  might  not  see, — 
I  hid  it  deep  as  the  grave  is  made, 
Where  the  heart  that  can  ache  no  more  is  laid. 


[26] 


VERSES 


3 

Last  night,  where  grows  the  river  grass, 
C Oh  the  stream  was  dark  though  the  moon  was  new!) 
I  saw  white  Death  with  my  lover  pass, 
Side  by  side  as  the  troopers  do. 
"Give  me,"  said  Death,  "thy  purse  well-filled, 
And  thy  mantle-clasp  which  the  moonbeams  gild; 
Save  the  heart  which  beats  for  thy  dear  sake," 
(Oh  I  saw  my  heart  as  I  saw  the  dew  ! ) 
"All  life  hath  given  is  Death's  to  take." 
Dear  God!  how  can  I  love  thy  day 
If  thou  takest  the  heart  that  loves  away ! 


[27] 


VERSES 


ITER    SUPREMUM 

OH,  what  a  night  for  a  soul  to  go! 
The  wind  a  hawk,  and  the  fields  in  snow; 
No  screening  cover  of  leaves  in  the  wood, 
Nor  a  star  abroad  the  way  to  show. 

Do  they  part  in  peace,  soul  with  its  clay? 
Tenant  and  landlord,  what  do  they  say? 
Was  it  sigh  of  sorrow  or  of  release 
I  heard  just  now  as  the  face  turned  gray? 

What  if,  aghast  on  the  shoreless  main 

Of  Eternity,  it  sought  again 

The  shelter  and  rest  of  the  Isle  of  Time, 

And  knocked  at  the  door  of  its  house  of  pain ! 

On  the  tavern  hearth  the  embers  glow, 
The  laugh  is  deep  and  the  flagons  low; 
But  without,  the  wind  and  the  trackless  sky, 
And  night  at  the  gates  where  a  soul  would  go! 


[28] 


VERSES 


ON    THE    FLY-LEAF    OF    THE    RUBAIYAT 

DEEM  not  this  book  a  creed,  't  is  but  the  cry 
Of  one  who  fears  not  death,  yet  would  not  die ; 
Who  at  the  table  feigns  with  sorry  jest 
To  love  the  wine  the  Master's  hand  has  pressed, 
The  while  he  loves  the  absent  Master  best, — 
The  bitter  cry  of  Love  for  love's  reply ! 


[29] 


VERSES 


IN    AN    ALBUM 

LIKE  the  south-flying  swallow  the  summer  has  flown, 
Like  a  fast-falling  star,  from  unknown  to  unknown 
Life  flashes  and  falters  and  fails  from  our  sight, — 
Good-night,  friends,  good-night. 

Like  home-coming  swallows  that  seek  the  old  eaves, 
Like  the  buds  that  wait  patient  beneath  the  dead 

leaves, 
Love  shall  sleep  in  our  hearts  till  our  hands  meet 

again,— 

Till  then,  friends,  till  then! 


[30] 


VERSES 

WITH     APRIL    ARBUTUS,     TO    A    FRIEND 

FAIRER  than  we  the  woods  of  May, 

Yet  sweeter  blossoms  do  not  grow 

Than  these  we  send  you  from  our  snow. 

Cramped  are  their  stems  by  winter's  cold, 

And  stained  their  leaves  with  last  year's  mould ; 

For  these  are  flowers  which  fought  their  way 

Through  ice  and  cold  to  sun  and  air, 

With  all  a  soul  might  do  and  dare, — 

Hope,  that  outlives  a  world's  decay, 

Enduring  faith  that  will  not  die, 

And  love  that  gives,  not  knowing  why. 

Therefore  we  send  them  unto  you; 

And  if  they  are  not  all  your  due, 

Once  they  have  looked  into  your  face 

Your  graciousness  will  give  them  place. 

You  know  they  were  not  born  to  bloom 

Like  roses  in  a  crowded  room; 

For  though  courageous  they  are  shy, 

Loving  but  one  sweet  hand  and  eye. 

Ah,  should  you  take  them  to  the  rest, 

The  warmth,  the  shelter  of  your  breast, 

Since  on  the  bleak 
And  frozen  bosom  of  our  snows 
They  dared  to  smile,  on  yours  who  knows 
But  that  they  might  not  dare  to  speak! 
[31] 


VERSES 


IMMORTALITY 

MY  window  is  the  open  sky, 
The  flower  in  farthest  wood  is  mine; 
I  am  the  heir  to  all  gone  by, 
The  eldest  son  of  all  the  line. 

And  when  the  robbers  Time  and  Death 
Athwart  my  path  conspiring  stand, 
I  cheat  them  with  a  clod,  a  breath, 
And  pass  the  sword  from  hand  to  hand! 


[32] 


VERSES 


J.    E.    B. 

NOT  all  the  pageant  of  the  setting  sun 

Should  yield  the  tired  eyes  of  man  delight, 
No  sweet  beguiling  power  had  stars  at  night 
To  soothe  his  fainting  heart  when  day  is  done, 

Nor  any  secret  voice  of  benison 

Might  nature  own,  were  not  each  sound  and  sight 
The  sign  and  symbol  of  the  infinite, 
The  prophecy  of  things  not  yet  begun. 

So  had  these  lips,  so  early  sealed  with  sleep, 

No  fruitful  word,  this  life  no  power  to  move 
Our  deeper  reverence,  did  we  not  see 

How  more  than  all  he  said,  he  was,  — how,  deep 
Below  this  broken  life,  he  ever  wove 
The  finer  substance  of  a  life  to  be. 


[33] 


VERSES 


BY    A     GRAVE 

OFT  have  I  stood  within  the  carven  door 

Of  some  cathedral  at  the  close  of  the  day, 
And  seen  its  softened  splendors  fade  away 
From  lucent  pane  and  tessellated  floor, 

As  if  a  parting  guest  who  comes  no  more,  — 
Till  over  all  silence  and  blackness  lay. 
Then  rose  sweet  murmurings  of  them  that 

pray, 
And  shone  the  altar  lamps  unseen  before, 

So,  Dear,  as  here  I  stand  with  thee  alone, 

The  voices  of  the  world  sound  faint  and  far, 
The  glare  and  glory  of  the  noon  grow  dim, 

And  in  the  stillness,  what  I  had  not  known, 
I  know,  —  a  light,  pure  shining  as  a  star, 
A  song,  uprising  like  a  holy  hymn. 


[34] 


VERSES 


DUALITY 

WITHIN  me  are  two  souls  that  pity  each 
The  other  for  the  ends  they  seek,  yet  smile 
Forgiveness,  as  two  friends  that  love  the  while 
The  folly  against  which  each  feigns  to  preach. 

And  while  one  barters  in  the  market-place, 
Or  drains  the  cup  before  the  tavern  fire, 
The  other,  winged  with  a  divine  desire, 
Searches  the  solitary  wastes  of  space. 

And  if  o'ercome  with  pleasure  this  one  sleeps, 

The  other  steals  away  to  lay  its  ear 

Upon  some  lip  just  cold,  perchance  to  hear 

Those  wondrous  secrets  which  it  knows — and  keeps! 


[35] 


VERSES 


LULLABY 

O  MARY,  Mother,  if  the  day  we  trod 
In  converse  sweet  the  lily-fields  of  God, 
From  earth  afar  arose  a  cry  of  pain, 
Would  we  not  weep  again? 
(Sings}  Hush,  hush,  O  baby  mine, 

Mothers  twain  are  surely  thine, 
One  of  earth  and  One  divine. 

O  Mary,  Mother,  if  the  day  the  air 
Was  sweet  with  songs  celestial,  came  a  prayer 
From  earth  afar  and  mingled  with  the  strain, 
Would  we  not  pray  again? 
(Sings)  Sleep,  sleep,  my  baby  dear, 

Mothers  twain  are  surely  near, 
One  to  pray  and  One  to  hear. 

O  Mary,  Mother,  if,  as  yesternight 
A  bird  sought  shelter  at  my  casement  light, 
A  wounded  soul  should  flutter  to  thy  breast, 
Wouldst  thou  refuse  it  rest? 
(Sings)  Sleep,  darling,  peacefully, 

Mary,  Mother,  comforts  me; 
Christ,  her  son,  hath  died  for  thee. 
[36] 


D.  B.  Updike 

The  Merrymount  Press 

Boston 


A   Review  by 
ISAAC  ANVERSOX 

.\<;N  KKMKMBKRKlt.     By 

),..,  .;..,,  •.  ir     Hrutllu.        With      I  II  U.It  '-tl- 

1    pp?    Boston:    Houyhtott 
" 


RAN1K),M  reminiscences  from 
many  parts  of  the  w.ui.l, 
lold  without  any  attempt  at 
»«rdtTl>  sequence,  make  up 
tin--  book  which  Arthur  Sher- 
liurnc  Hardy  has  called  "  Thing's 
lUiix'nibered."  Ho  may  be  telling 
an  incident  that  took  place  at  Te 
heran,  when  he  \\ill  suddenly  be  re 
minded  of  something  that  happened, 
while  ht-  was  Minister  to  'Greece  o 
Si)ain  or  Switzerland,  or  while  hc 
was  a  plobe  at  West  Point  or  a  pro 
fessor  at  Dartmouth.  He  will  ge 
nark  to  the  original  story  after  a 
while,  but  he  is  in  no  hurry  about; 
it.  Heading  his  book  is  like  listening. 
to  a  widely  traveled  man  who  is  a 
gifted  conversationalist.  One  never 
feels  like  interrupting  or  trying  to 
direct  his  conversation  into  certain 
channels.  It  i^  much  better  to  let 
him  wander  along  as  hi?  will.  And 
when  he  is  all  through,  one-  feels 
like  begging  him  to  continue  for  an 
hour  or  two  longer.  There  must  be 
a  thousand  things  that  he  has  for 
gotten  to  tell. 

There  is  very  little  in  Mr.  Hardy's 
book  of  the  "  inside  stuff  "  about 
world  politics  usually  found  in  the 
reminiscences  of  diplomats.  This 
may  be  because  few  events  of  inter 
national  importance  took  place  at 
the  Courts  to  which  he  was  accred 
ited,  or  It  may  be  because  the  au 
thor  prefers  not  to  tell  all  that  he 
knows.  Whatever  the  reason,  he 
confines  himself,  for  the  most  part, 
to  things  that  are  less  important  but 
infinitely  more  amusing.  There  is. 
for  example,  the  story  of  the  man 
who  pestered  the  American  Legation 
to  secure  for  himself  and  his  wife 
an  invitation  to  a  court  ball  and 
Hien,  after  it  had  been  secured,  sent 
a  polite  note  regretting  his  inability 
to  attend  because  he  had  learned 
that  his  wife  would  be  obliged  to 
v.coi  a  decollete  gown,  which  was 
against  hi.s  principles.  And  there  is 
the  story  of  the  lady  tourist  whom 
he  encountered  wandering  about  at 
:'se  of  the  Acropolis  in  Athens, 
wondering  it'  there  was  "  anything 
in  particular  up  there  on  that  hill." 


Regarding  the  official  dress  adopt 
ed  by  our  Government  for  its  repre 
sentatives  abroad,  Mr.  Hardy  has 
this  to  say: 

Jt     is    unfortunately    the    livery 
prescribed  for  waiters,  as  also  the 
usual  evening  dress  of  society.     It 
possesses,    however,    i.hc   dignity  01 
authority;    liko   the  flag,    it    is  au 
thorized.       So    ni-voiiM-ed.    even    in 
broad  daylight,  one  was  always  eis 
regie,   and  often  more  comfortably^ 
than    one's    colleagues.      One    a!j 
achieved     a     conspicuousness    Jfio 
profusion   of  gold   lace   could  con 
fer. 

Conformity  to  instructions-  al 
ways  seemed  to  me  preferable  to 
the  adoption  either  of  .something 
devised  by  one's  tailor  rr,  if  one 
happened  to  have  been  on  the  staff 
of  some  State  Governor,  of  a  mili 
tary  uniform ;  for  the  former  pro 
vokes  embarrassing  inquiries,  and 
the  latter  excites  the  smile  of  the 
professional  soldier.  Yet  such  de 
partures  from  the  regulations  were 
not  uncommon  and  were  excused 
doubtless  by  the  parable  related 
in  the  Gospel  of  St.  Matthew : 

"  And  when  the  king  came  in  to 
see  the  guests,  he  saw  there  a  man 
which  had  not  on  a  wedding  gar 
ment:  And  he  saith  unto  him, 
Friend,  how  earnest  thou  in  hither 
not  having  a  wedding  garment?" 
Now  as  to  dress  in  general,  there 
is  no  unpleasantness  so  unpleasant 
as  that  due  -to  a  conspicuously  in 
appropriate  garment,  but  in  this 
case  the  diplomatic  culprit  has  a 
ready  answer.  "  O  King,  I  am 
arrayed  as  prescribed  by  one  whom 
you  address  as  Great  and  Good 
Friend." 

Far  more  embarrassing  was  the 
practice  of  the  Department  of  State 
of  paying  no  attention  to  royal 
birthdays  or  to  deaths  in  royal 
families.  Other  Governments  sent 
telegrams  of  felicitation  or  of  con 
dolence,  as  the  occasion  might  re 
quire,  and  these  were  delivered  by 
their  diplomatic  representatives.  In 
order  not  to  appear  utterly  indiffer 
ent,  Mr.  Hardy  frequently  fabri 
cated  such  messages  and  delivered 
them.  But  he  did  not  always  suc 
ceed.  The  Persian  Minister  of  For 
eign  affairs  once  asked  him:  "  Why- 
is  it  that  your  Legation  transmits  a 
paraphrase  of  the  telegram  of  con 
gratulation,  whereas  other  Ministers 
send  us  the  original  message?  " 

Mr.  Hardy  pays  a  glowing  tribute 
to  West  Point  as  an  educational  in 
stitution—not  merely  as  a  military 
school.  He  believes  that  the  rigid 


discipline  there,  combined  with  the 
fact  that  its  attendance  is  made  up 
of  young  men  who  have  a  definite 
purpose  in  going  there,  gives  it  a 
distinct  advantage  over  other  col 
leges.  As  Mr.  Hardy  was  a  pro 
fessor  at  Dartmouth  after  he  re 
signed  from  the  army,  it  cannot  be 
denied  that  he  had  opportunities  for 
comparing  the  work  of  other  stu 
dents  with  that  of  the  West  Pointers. 
The  account  of  Mr.  Hardy's  ex- 

perie^ftes  at  West   Point  closes  wifl 

th^Tollowing  anecdote. 

^It  was  early  during  that  "  plebe 
year  "   at   West    Point  that    I   re 
ceived  my  first  lesson  in  anatomy 
from  Surgeon   Head  at    the     hos 
pital.    Reporting    one    morning    at 
.sick    call,    the  following    conversa 
tion  ensued: 
"  Well,  sir0  ' 

(With  my  hand  on  the  seat  of 
pain.)  "Stomach-ache,  sir." 

"  'Good  (rod,  sir!  Oon't  you 
know  the  difference  between  your 
stomach  and  your  belly?  What 
kind  of  bread  do  you  eat  ? 

(A  little  confused.)  "  White- 
bread,  sir." 

"  Eat  brown  bread,  sir.  Next! 

While  on  the  subject  of  food,  one 
may  be  excused  for  adopting  Mr. 
Hardy's  own  method  and  relating 
another  incident  which  took  place 
many  years  later  in  Switzerland.  In 
a  railway  restaurant  at  Berne  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Hardy  were  served  with 
some  honey  which  seemed  to  them 
equal  to  the  famous  honey  of  Hym- 
ettus.  which  they  had  tasted  in 
Greece.  Summoning  the  proprietor, 
Mrs.  Hardy  asked  if  it  would  be  pos 
sible  to  purchase  some.  "  Certain 
ly,  Madame,"  said  the  polite  propri 
etor.  "  but  we  also  have  the  real 
honey." 

In  Switzerland  Mr.  Hardy  fo 
himself  on  familiar  ground, 
a  hoy  hp  had  attended  school  al 
Nea^phatel,  and  he  had  vivid  mem 
ories  of  the  Pension  Koulet,  where 
he  and  his  elder  brother  had  been 
the  only  English-speaking  pension - 
naires.  One  memory,  not  so  pleas 
ant  as  some  others,  was  of  not  be 
ing  permitted  to  have  butter  at 
breakfast  on  the  theory  that  "  but 
ter  clogs  the  brain." 

In  1913  Mr.  Hardy  passed  a.  night 
at  Neufchatel,  and  in  the  course  of 
the  evening  strolled  into  the  public 
reading  room  of  the  hotel.  What 
happened  i§  best  told  in  his  own 
words : 


A  man  in  the  uniform  of  a 
Prussian  general  officer  stood  at 
tho  window.  A.s  J  entered,  he 
turned  and  glared  at  me  with  an 
expression  plainly  indicating  1  was 
intruding.  No  pen  can  render  the 
insolence  and  scorn  on  his  face. 
It  required  all  the  self-control  at 
my  command  to  avoid  sinking  to 
the  level  of  his  impertinence. 

The   following    morning   our   two 
motors  stood  at  '.he  opposite  curb 
ready  to  start.     As  I  signaled  for 
ours,    the   General,    who   joined   us 
at     this     moment     on     the     steps, 
raised   his   hand    in   warning     and 
signaled  for  his  own  car — a  smart 
limousine   with    two     orderlies     in 
uniform  on  the  front  seat— and  we 
waited   perforce  while  his  luggage 
was  installed.     Our  chauffer  was  a 
young    Frenchman   who    had   been 
for  many  years  in  our  .service.      1 
could  see  that  he  was  boiling  with 
rage,    but    he   said     nothing.      The 
orderly     dismounted,     opened     the 
door,     saluted,     closed     the    door, 
saluted  again,  and  the  car  moved 
on      It  so  happened  that   we  were 
both   going  in  the  same  direction, 
to    Berne.      A.s   we    left   the   town 
and  struck  into  the  open  country, 
1    realized  we   were  exceeding   our 
usual   speed,   and   before   long   the 
black    body    of    the   limousine   ap 
peared  ahead  of  us.  I  said  nothing, 
but    I    understood.      Gradually    we 
drew  up  and  the  sharp  note  of  our 
horn  demanded  passage.  For  some 
minutes  it   was     unheeded.     Then 
our  car,   gaining  speed,   thrust  its' 
nose   on   a    level     with     the     vtar 
wheels,  the  horn  barked  insygrait- 
ly  and   the  car  ahead   was  forced 
to   yield  passage.      It    was   impos 
sible    not    to    exchange     a     glance 
with   its  occupant.      His   face   war- 
one  of  concentrated  rage.     1  raised 
my  hat.  and  we  saw  him  no  more 
When     he    was     transferred     from 
.Switzerland    to     .Spain,     Mr      Hardy 
again     revisited    old    .scenes        A>    a 
boy  he  had  made  a  trip  to  Spam  in 
one   of    his   father's    ships,    and    had 
-spent  many   happy  hours  wandering 
about     the     Alhambra.        On      these 
rambles     his     sole     companion     had 
been  an  old   Spaniard  who  acted  a.s 
guide  but  who  possessed   the  virtue, 
unusual^in  guides,  of  not  talkim.  too 
much.A,In    later    years    Mr.    !; 

the    Alhamhra    and    found-, 
its  unique  charm  had  not  van- 
ed  with  the  years. 


Among  Mr.  Hardy's  recollections 
of  his  father,  Alpheus  Hardy,  jy  one 
of  a  conversation  with  Oliver  Wen 
dell  Holmes.  The  two  men  were 
looking  at  a  statuary  group  repre 
senting  the  wise  and  foolish  vir 
gins— 

the    former    a    seated    figure,    so 
berly    robed,     shielding    with    one 
hand   the  flame   of  her   lamp  and 
looking    up   Into    the   face   of    her 
improvident  sister,  a  standing  fig 
ure    of   exquisite   grace,    with   fil 
leted  brow  and  richly   chased  gir 
dle,    the    lovely    outstretched    arm 
appealing    for   the    oil    lacking    In 
her  neglected  lamp. 
Suddenly  Holmes  exclaimed: 
"  She  ought   to   have  given   her 
Home! " 

"  Hold  on  a  moment,"  said  my 
father.  "  let  us  see  about  that. 
Tivo  men  have  notes  to  pay  on 
January  1st.  One  pursues  his  or 
dinary  way  of  living,  enjoys  his 
cigar,  his  club,  his  theatre  and 
horses;  the  other  by  retrenchment 
and  sacrifice  manages  to  accumu 
late  the  amount  of  his  debt  and 
is  ready  to  meet  his  obligation. 
On  December  81st  his  neighbor 
comes  to  borrow.  Now,  remember, 
tJu'r^  is  not  enough  for  both." 

Holmes  thought  for  a  moment, 
then  said: 

"  I  admire  your  logic,  but  she 
ough*  to  have  given  her  some." 
Alpheus  Hardy  was  a  shipowner 
of  the  old  school  whose  sailing  sh;i- 
brought  to  the  wharves  of  Boston 
merchandise  from  the  emte  of  the 
earth.  The  son  remerrioers  spend 
ing  hours  in  the  cupola  of  the  house 
watching  for  his  father's  ships  to 
appear  over  the  horizon.  It  was 
during  those  hours  that  the  desire 
to  visit  distant  lands  was  born  inr 
him,  a  desire  which  it  was  his  good 
fortune  to  be  able  to  gratify  in  aft  el- 
years.  He  traveled  widely  and  made 
friends  with  many  interesting  peo 
ple  at  home  and  abroad.  It  is  the 
memory  of  these  people  and  places 
and  his  keen  and  kindly  comment 
on  men  and  events  that  make 
"  Things  Remembered  "  a  book  of 
things  distinctly  worth  remember 
ing. 


/'**! 


A    Page   of    the    Persian   Chef's   Accounts. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-50m-4,'61(B8994s4)444 


PS 

1792 


Hardy  - 


S69      Songs  of  two 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A  A      000035223    7 


PS 

1792 

S69 


THE  LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


